


what my hands were made for

by hexmionegranger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts, M/M, Oliver panics about his sexuality, Soulmates, overdone tropes, soul marks, their soul marks are quidditch related, what were you expecting?, written for hprarepairnet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 23:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9293426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexmionegranger/pseuds/hexmionegranger
Summary: There had been a small silver Quaffle inked into the skin on Oliver’s right hipbone since before he knew how to walk. His mother had gasped delightedly the day it had appeared, shimmering onto his skin as if by magic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _Tell me I’m what your hands were made for_  
>  Tell me I’m who your mouth was made for  
> \- Tegan and Sara, _Come On_

There had been a small silver Quaffle inked into the skin on Oliver’s right hipbone since before he knew how to walk. His mother had gasped delightedly the day it had appeared, shimmering onto his skin as if by magic.

Or, well, it  _was_  magic. Some of the oldest magic that existed, and nearly as rare as well. Often, they were called soul marks, though so few people got them that no name was even really needed when they did show up. They marked the presence of a soul mate, another individual who was so perfect for you that you were destined to be together not only in this life, but all lives. Time, space, and other human matters were unimportant - if a soul mate existed, your futures were linked inextricably together, despite the consequences.

And often, there were consequences. The fates were generally content to leave matching up to individuals. Most people tended to gravitate to their best matches, but soul mate’s relationships were so steeped in passion that sometimes there were… problems. Because great passion often manifested as anger, as pure raw emotion, and soul mates had a history of upsetting each other. Sometimes irretrievably. And thus, the fates intervened, and created a way for two people to know if their passion was rooted in something much, much deeper.

* * *

Oliver had always had a passion for Quidditch. Even without the mark on his skin, he had wanted to fly. Tumble through the air, skim the sky with his toes. It only made it better to know his chosen mate would share that passion.

He had asked his mother once what his mate’s mark would look like - when he was young enough to believe she held the answers to the world in her small open palm. 

Helen had smiled indulgently down at her young son, but shook her head sadly. Because the truth was there was no way of knowing exactly. It wouldn’t be the same as Oliver’s, it would represent him as a person and probably match the Quaffle. But he would know, she said, as soon as he saw it.

Oliver had asked then when he got to know. When would he meet her, his soul mate?

And Helen’s smile had grown even sadder, because that was the worst part. As much as a soul mark was a blessing, rare and ancient magic that proved love and passion beyond your wildest dreams, that proved there was someone out there formed by the gods just for you, it was not a guarantee. Despite the best intents of the fates, soul mates did not always find each other. The world had grown and kept growing, and soul marks were rare and often kept a secret when they did appear - for reasons Oliver had yet to ascertain. And the unfortunate truth was that once you had a soul mate, you would never be truly and completely happy with someone else.

* * *

The first goal that Oliver saved was a Quaffle thrown by Marcus Flint. It hit him in the stomach and he had nearly slid backwards off his broom, but despite the Chaser’s superior strength and power, Oliver emerged victorious. He glanced up and met a pair of dark brown eyes, and his stomach had clenched, and then the Slytherin sneered and spun and was gone. 

And Oliver was left with the strangest feeling in his stomach, that something very very important had just happened.

* * *

Oliver liked Angelina. And Katie. And Alicia. He liked Cho too, though she was quiet, and a seeker – which didn’t feel right. But none of them were quite what he was looking for. None of them made his heart beat fast and his hands shake and all the other things he figured would happen when he met his soul mate.

He had never entirely considered the possibility that maybe he wasn’t looking for a woman.

Sure, he noticed that sometime in the locker rooms his eyes were drawn to the smooth planes of Charlie Weasley’s chest. That he couldn’t picture small hands on his body. Sometimes he wondered what it would feel like to have stubble brush over his cheeks. 

Mostly, he focused on flying. He focused on winning.

* * *

Oliver was in seventh year when he noticed it.

He was sitting behind Marcus in Divination trying to see  _something_  in his crystal ball when Percy made some remark about ‘pointless work’ and ‘studying for N.E.W.T.S’. Oliver had looked up to roll his eyes at his academically-obsessed best friend when Marcus turned his head to the left and Oliver  _noticed_.

A set of Quidditch hoops, shimmering and golden, behind Marcus’s left ear. They were small, and to anyone else they might just be a magical tattoo designed to show off the Slytherin’s love of the game. But Oliver knew better. He wasn’t sure how, but as soon as he saw them he  _knew_  exactly what they were, and his hand dropped unconsciously onto his right hip.

A soul mark.

 _His_  soul mark.

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the front of the room. Trelawney was standing at the front of the room, a long bony finger stretched out in the direction of Marcus and Oliver.

Marcus turned completely in his seat to raise an eyebrow at Oliver, and Oliver was suddenly reminded that the opposing captain had changed over the summer. Longer hair, slightly spiked upwards. His teeth had been fixed, and even though he was sneering it was  _different_ and Oliver felt that same clenching feeling in his stomach that he’d felt all those years ago with that very first Quaffle.

Trelawney was still staring, her large eyes blown wide and her hand shaking as she watched them both. “Impossible…” She whispered, head shaking back and forth. “And yet… Touched by the fates themselves-”

Oliver jumped out of his seat, suddenly terrified and not wanting Trelawney to out his secret. Not sure why it was a secret, just sure that it  _couldn’t_  be Marcus! They were enemies, they were  _rivals_  – they were both men.

“Oliver?” Percy asked, carefully, reaching a hand out for his best friend to tug him back into his seat. 

“I… I feel sick. I have to go.” Oliver announced, and turned on his heel and  _ran_.

* * *

Percy was the first person he told. 

His friend had been so worried about his strange behaviour in class, and Oliver just felt like he needed to tell  _someone_ , so he told the whole story, start to finish. From the mark on his hip, to the matching one on Marcus’s neck. From his worries about ever even finding his match to his completely new set of worries about the fact that his match was not only a  _man_  but also Marcus Flint.

He was totally, utterly, and completely fucked.

Percy had, thank Merlin, taken it all in stride.

And then he said Oliver had to tell Marcus.

And soon.

Because chances like this didn’t just come up for everyone. In fact, they came up for almost no one. And of course, there were consequences.

* * *

Oliver told Marcus at the end of the year. 

They played their last ever game against each other and Oliver  _won_  and it was all he ever wanted. His heart was soaring and he was elated and excited and really fucking proud, but there was a little nagging feeling tugging on his heart. That he wanted to share it. That he wanted to check in on Marcus.

That he wanted to  _kiss him_.

It had taken him months to get used to the fact of his match. Months to get over the whole sexuality crisis, and the whole Marcus Flint crisis. But he was here now, and suddenly it was overwhelming with the amount that he  _wanted_  and  _needed_  and  _couldn’t wait another minute_.

So he snuck into the Slytherin locker room after the game. He had on good authority that Marcus would be there the longest, standing under the hottest shower and running through everything that he did wrong, every reason why he lost.

Marcus  _was_  there, but he wasn’t in the shower anymore. He was standing in the middle of the locker room with a towel slung low across his hips, water droplets clinging to his chest and running in rivulets over the planes of his muscles.

Oliver’s mouth went dry.

His shoe scuffed and Marcus looked up immediately, catching his gaze, eyes narrowing.

“Wood.” He began, lifting a hand to run through his hair and shake some of the water out of it.

“Flint.” Oliver responded, swallowing hard. “I, uh,”

“Came to rub it in?” Marcus retorted, turning back to his locker. “Whatever. We beat you for years – you just got lucky today.”

Oliver shook his head, and then realized Marcus couldn’t see. “No.” He said, clearly, stepping closer to the other man. “We have to talk.”

Marcus’s shoulder’s dropped and he glanced back at Oliver. “Merlin. What on earth could we ever have to talk about?”

Shutting his eyes, Oliver counted to five and then reached down, tugging up the shirt of his robes. He pushed at the top of his pants just a little, baring his hipbone to the man in front of him. “This.”

Marcus turned fully and took three steps to Oliver, before he spotted the Quaffle and his eyes grew wide.

“Fuck.”

Oliver nodded. “Yeah.” He said, and then laughed nervously. “Never would have guess that you…”

“How long have you know?” Marcus interrupted, and then dropped to his knees to get a better look. Oliver swallowed again at the sight of the other mans dark head so close to his cock. If his Quidditch pants hadn’t been so thick, he might have felt Marcus’s hot breath against his skin.

“Um,” Oliver began, thinking quickly. “October.” He admitted.

“What?!” Marcus snapped, glancing upwards.

Oliver shrugged. “I didn’t… I wasn’t sure if…” He took a breath, summoned his Gryffindor courage. “I was scared.”

Marcus stood, and was now so close to Oliver that he had to close his eyes to stop from crossing them. “Brave little Gryffindor,” Marcus began, and Oliver could almost feel him grinning. “Scared of me.”

Oliver blinked his eyes open and forced them to focus on Marcus’s face. “Look. I wasn’t  _planning_  on it being you, Flint. No point getting all pissy at  _me_ -”

Marcus’s hand was cupping his jaw then, thumb brushing over his cheek bone. Oliver swallowed once more and stopped talking. “Shut up, Wood.” He mumbled.

And then, he  _kissed_  him. And the world stopped.

“Oh.” Oliver whispered, when they broke apart and his head stopped spinning and everything settled slowly back to earth around them.

“Still scared?” Marcus asked, though his voice was tentative and breathy and his eyes were closed now too.

“No.” Oliver admitted, and his smile cracked wide and Marcus returned it and Oliver knew, without a doubt, that they were exactly where they were meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [hprarepairnet's](http://hprarepairnet.tumblr.com) get to know our members challenge. If you're not following us (or [me](hexmionegranger.tumblr.com) on tumblr) I would highly recommend it!
> 
> Look. I know this trope has been done before. But I just had to do it, so I hope you enjoy!


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